


deliver us

by wildcard_47



Series: from partridges to pear trees [8]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Baby Now We've Got Bad Blood, Feelings About Death, M/M, No Really: Stop Trying To Make Me Bleed, spiritual crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 11:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17079737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: For Day 8 of Carnivale, and the prompt "a time of miracles." On a high ridge, John Irving contemplates acts of God and sin.





	deliver us

Knocked flat on his back in the slag, with the bright blade of Cornelius’s boat knife slicing through his lapel again and again, John Irving was certain he was dying.

It was not until he realized the knife-point had cut into hard, unyielding leather and paper instead of pliant flesh, and that the searing pain in his side was merely a bruise blossoming across strained ribs, that he understood the truth. 

Moreover, the shock of this discovery was writ across Cornelius’s ashen, disbelieving face.

“The Word,” John whispered, as he sat up, and took Cornelius’s hands in both of his. A steel slip of a knife fell from the caulker’s mate’s fingers, all the fight gone from him, at least temporarily. He still sat astride John's hips. “Providence has seen fit to use us, Cornelius. God has delivered us. We – ”

“I’ll not be used again, even by Him,” snarled his companion, though such blinding hatred was not truly directed at John – directed more toward the circumstances they had no hand in creating, the distant committees and outrageous fortunes which had sent them to this strange and barren land. “A wise man makes his own destiny, John. I truly believe that.”

Nodding his head yes, John’s hands moved to Cornelius’s face – tangled in his red-blonde beard and hair in a poor attempt at a caress before moving to his shoulders, and tracing gently over his dirtied, swan-like neck, all while Hickey’s quicksilver eyes tracked every blessed movement. His lips parted on an unknown word. He seemed almost to smile.

And then John had squeezed and  _ squeezed _ and choked and cried, and his fingers had caressed through Cornelius’s hair anew, although the man himself could not smile about such shocking intimacies, could never smile again in fact, as he now lay slack and lifeless on the ground. John had lain next to him for a long time afterward, even curled up beside him with his knees drawn up as a child might have done, savoring the last warmth of his cooling skin as Hickey's proud spirit slowly ebbed from his body.

Koveyook found Irving slumped in this position a short while later, the question bubbling up from his throat in a hesitant, careful greeting. 

“John?”

Irving glanced over, sat up in haste. Nauja, the old woman, and the other men had stayed with the sled. His new friend had come alone.

“Koveyook. I – I’m sorry. I – oh, I want to go home.”

And John wept like a penitent child, swiping grime and salt and traces of blood from his face. Haltingly, he tried to mime what had happened –  _ hungry, we are gone mad from hunger  _ – but his sinful confession had either not registered or Koveyook had intuited what was not being said, rather than the mix of words that tumbled forth from parched, cracked lips. After a fashion, the Inuit man had knelt down and touched the notched lapel of John’s jacket with careful fingers, whispering quiet words to him all the while. He inspected the pierced Bible within the inner pocket, as well as John’s unbroken shirt. His lips thinned in a knowing way when he picked up Cornelius’s knife, looked at Cornelius’s nearly-bare, blood-flecked body and the corpse of poor Farr lying a few yards over.

Within an hour, the rest of the party had come up the ridge, casting sympathetic glances at Irving, all while plying him with small bits of meat and blubber and water from sealskin containers. Within two, they were walking to Terror Camp: John trying his best to describe Captain Crozier and the situation he had left behind, Koveyook and the others attempting to mime answers or questions to this description as best they could in turn.

The Captain himself met them on the outskirts of camp with Fitzjames, Edward, and Goodsir at his side. Introducing their party with ease in Inuktitut, and indicating he was to be called  _ Aglooka,  _ he had smiled broadly for the first time in weeks before the party had gone off with Goodsir, to be treated as an honored delegation of friends. 

And then Crozier had stepped forward and clapped John on the shoulders like a proud brother, tears pooling in his blue eyes.

“Well, lad, I daresay you’ve got your miracle.”

“God has delivered us,” whispered John again, although the bitterest ache pricked up in his heart anew, and he could not bring himself to revel in this extraordinary fact. All he could think about was Cornelius’s proud, defiant declaration –  _ a wise man makes his own destiny  _ – and the lithe, strangely-vulnerable body that now lay exposed to the elements at the top of the ridge.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the first song on [The Prince of Egypt soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/track/2q3X0uc2XpGruqitKOm3xa?si=dxH10kU-SUuEhjHvDgDRoQ), because I was totally stumped for this prompt until I woke up this morning with that tune in my head and this idea in my brain. Ideas are weird, you guys.


End file.
